The Reese Technique and the Finch Response
by Rosslyn
Summary: Reese decides to give an example of how he actually flirts, but of course, Finch sabotages the plan. Takes place right after Episode 2.05, Bury the Lede. Finch/Reese, One-shot, fluff.


_Reese decides to give an example of how he actually flirts, but of course, Finch sabotages the plan._

_Takes place right after Episode 2.05, Bury the Lede._

Reese/Finch, slashy, no like, no read, no own.

**The Reese Technique and the Finch Response**

* * *

"If it's any consolation," says Finch after a while, "I'm sorry it didn't work out for Mr. Anderson."

Reese's lips twitch. "Yeah, me too. To think you had gone to _so_ much trouble..."

Finch makes no reply but Reese feels certain the other man is smirking.

"Are you ever going to tell me what I said to her before the date?"

"No, Mr. Reese." Finch sounds amused. "But whatever you are thinking, it's probably along the right lines."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, Mr. Reese." Reese hears Finch shifting in his chair. "While the identity and everything else about Mr. Anderson is false, the personality has to remain somewhat true. I had to impersonate you to make sure that the cover doesn't fall through five minutes into the date."

Reese grins. "And you learnt my flirtation techniques from where?"

"Oh, Mr. Reese." There was a small, half amused, and half exasperated sigh on the other end. No doubt Finch was reminding him that the less asked, the better.

Reese smirks. "I'm going back to my place. Can you come over?"

The other side pauses for a brief second. "Why?"

"Oh, just the fact that an investigative journalist spent three days there." Reese sounds bemused, "I'm sure you won't allow any chance for any leftover equipment that could compromise our cover."

"Who's paranoid now, Mr. Reese?"

"Or you could help clean the dishes and put away the laundry," says Reese, equally sarcastic.

"Alright, alright..." A long suffering sigh, and the sound of a chair scraping back. Finch gathers his things and gets ready to head out the door. "I'm be over in a bit."

When Finch does get to Reese's apartment, though, neither dishes nor laundry awaits him. Instead, a table is set for two, with candles and wine. He pauses in the door.

"Is - I'm sorry, was there a change of plan?" Finch asks tentatively, glancing around. "Do you have a last minute visitor?"

Reese pokes his head around the kitchen, saucepan in one hand and oven mitten in another. "Only invited guests are welcome in my place, Finch." He gestures towards the table. "Do sit down, dinner is almost ready."

Finch gapes in amazement. "Dinner? But I - I thought you wanted to check if your apartment was clean!"

Reese looks at him pointedly. "Yes - why don't you get started while I'm simmering the sauce?"

Finch turns around slowly in bewilderment, but he does what he was told anyway. With meticulous detail Finch goes through the usual places: behind the TV, the vase, on the wall, underneath the table, the ventilation points. An enticing smell drifts from the kitchen, along with the homely noise of clattering pots and pans, and Finch wonders if this isn't the strangest scenario that he's ever been in.

At last he straightens up. "I think we are in the clear," he says, dryly, knowing full well that there was no need to search in the first place. "So, enjoy your dinner Mr. Reese, I'll be going now."

Reese emerges from the kitchen on cue. Carrying two plates, the ex-agent gives him an amused look. "Do you really think I'd go to this much trouble for myself, Finch?"

Finch lets the confusion show on his face.

"I'm asking you to have dinner with me, Harold," Reese says, in a 'I thought you were smarter than this' way.

Finch stares for some more, then his lips twitch.

"Usually, when I'm asked to dinner, there isn't a need to sweep the other person's apartment for bugs, as a prerequisite," he says.

Reese quirks a smile at that. "Now you know, Finch," he says lazily, "My flirtation techniques are quite different from what you'd expect."

Finch glances at him as he stalks over, drawn to the food. "Is that what this is, Mr. Reese? An example of your fine dating techniques?"

Reese pulls back the chair for him, smiles and makes no reply.

"Quite the gentleman, I see," Finch remarks dryly.

Reese pours him wine. Raising a glass, he says, in a soft and sultry purr, "To partnerships."

Finch drinks to that, though he adds the adjective 'bizarre' to the end of the toast, in his head. He cuts the steak and gives it a tentative bite, chews, and brightens.

"This is actually rather good, Mr. Reese."

"Why must you act so surprised, Finch?" Reese replies, in mock hurt.

"Because I've never seen you eat anything that doesn't come in a container," says Finch, in all truth. When Reese went into restaurants to follow their Numbers, he only ordered, but never ate.

"I can have fine taste in life," Reese counters. "Not as... exquisite as you, perhaps, but still fine."

"Yes, like the 100,000 dollar sports car you bought today," Finch agrees, only the smallest hint of sarcasm. Reese grins.

"You know, Mr. Reese, they say that firearms and fancy cars are extensions of masculinity." Reese looks up in surprise. "Scientists have been able to conduct experiments, and find out that those who are particularly attached to these two things, are, shall we say... extraordinarily fond with their own."

Reese's half-raised glass stall midway to his lips, and his eyes narrow in suspicious disbelief.

"Tell me you didn't just make a pass at my _masculinity_," He pronounces these words as if they are French.

Finch looks back at him, innocent. "I was merely conveying an interesting theory, Mr. Reese. If you feel uncomfortable about the topic, we can move on."

Reese stares at him oddly. "Usually topics as explicit as this are left to the latter part of the evening," he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. Finch seems unperturbed.

"What _were_ you hoping to do with all these_?_" He waves towards the closet.

"Come now, Finch." Reese seems to have regained some of the composure that he had earlier and finished mock toasting the other man. "You don't seriously think I would've found use of a walk-in closet any other way."

Finch considers this for a brief second, and concedes. "Still. Sitting among these, I'm not sure I should feel protected, or worried."

"Why, protected of course, by my _masculinity_."

Finch opens his mouth and laughs silently. "I apologise, Mr. Reese."

"No need," Reese says lightly. "Shall we try again?"

"Try what?" Finch mmm-s over the sauce, his expression and tone amicable.

"Starting small," says Reese. He doesn't say what but both men understands. Finch's lips twitch again.

"Are you going to ask me about the weather, or how my day was, Mr. Reese? Because you know the answer to both."

Reese tilts his head sardonically. "Maybe I'll ask you your opinions on the presidential debate, Finch."

"Politics. Not the safest topic to be discussed on a first date."

Reese nearly laughs. "You seem to have a scientific method behind this, Finch."

"Who says I don't?"

Aggravated, Reese changes strategy.

"You look nice in this shirt, Finch. The blue brings out your eyes."

Finch glances up, startled. He takes his time chewing the food, swallows it, dabs his mouth with the napkin before speaking again. The colour in his cheek has faded a little when he does.

"That's so cliche, Mr. Reese."

Reese's eyes sparkles. The man could stand all levels of teasing, but a compliment? This _is_ valuable information.

"You do dress impeccably, Finch." Reese continues, all innocence.

"Oh," Finch lowers his glass and shakes his head, "I do wish you'd let me buy you some clothes, too, Mr. Reese."

"Why?" Reese follows nonchalantly, "Do you not like me in my suits?"

Finch gives him a caustic look. "Now that your street name is officially 'The Man in a Suit', I hardly think you have any other choice. Although," he adds thoughtfully, "A backorder or two from Savile Row can't go amiss."

Reese chuckles. "You spoil me with expensive gifts, Finch."

"I do not," says the man, defensive. "You take the liberty of buying your own, if I might remind you so."

Reese rolls his eyes. "Do you want me to take you out for a night drive?"

"Oh, please stop."

Reese grins, victorious. "I was pleasantly surprised today, Finch."

"Discovering another of my many talents?" said Finch, wry.

Reese mmm-ed. "I didn't know you could flirt so fluently, Finch."

"Why?" Finch doesn't stop what he's doing, doesn't bother looking up. "Just because I never answer to any of your advances?"

Reese's knife nearly slips and he catches them in time, barely. He looks up, wide-eyed and cautious. Across the table, Finch smirks.

"Relax, Mr. Reese. I won't sue for sexual harassment."

For an embarrassingly long moment, Reese is rendered speechless. He is uncertain about which question to follow that comment with: that _you think I was making advances?_ or _you realised they were advances after all?_

In the end, Reese manages the nonchalant. "You are a hard man to please, Finch."

Finch nods appreciatively. "That I am."

"Maybe I should try harder."

Finch quirks an amused brow. "You do an admirable job, Mr. Reese."

Reese is unsure whether he is being complimented or insulted, so he shrugs. The corner of Finch's lips curve into a tiny smile, and it stays there for the remainder of their meal. Reese finds himself inexplicably warmed by the presence of such a small smile, he lets the small defeat pass him by.

They eat the rest of their meal in comfortable silence.

"This _is_ rather quite good, Mr. Reese," Finch reiterates when he sets down his fork. "Now I feel guilty for robbing you often of the chance to cook such nice food."

"If I cook more often," says Reese, standing up to clear away the dishes, "will you come over and join me more often?"

Finch searches his face, hesitation evident in his eyes. "I... I don't see why you would want me to, Mr. Reese."

"For talking about the weather and your day, Finch."

Finch drops his gaze to the ground. When he looks up again, he is amused. "As you wish, Mr. Reese."

He hands over his dish to Reese, and their fingers brush together. Instead of pulling back, Finch stares down at their hands, paused mid-motion, a plate balancing delicately between the two. Phantom warmth radiates from the other man's fingers, and Finch looks up again into smiling, soft eyes.

"_So_ cliche, Mr. Reese," he says, turning to put the dishes in the sink. He does not attempt to hide the smile of his own.

Reese hovers behind him as Finch turns on the tap. "You would be surprised how well cliche works most of the time," he murmurs.

"Is that so?" Finch wipes down a plate and tilts his head slightly, so that the tickly breath doesn't send goosebumps down his spine. Suddenly, a pair of arms encircle him, a warm embrace traps him, and he jumps so hard that the plate slides out of his hand. But of course, Reese catches it in time.

"Careful now, Harold," the ex-agent chuckles in his ear, pulling away just as easily and quietly as he had embraced him. "I only have a set of two."

Finch does not reply. Reese watches him intently as he hangs his head, hands trembling on the edge of the sink. At long last Finch straightens.

"I should be going," he says, barely above a whisper.

Reese's gaze follows him back into the living room. Finch doesn't look back as he limps to the couch, picks up his coat, and his small toolbox.

"Hey, Finch." Reese's voice is soft, mesmerising. The other man pauses, but does not turn.

"I concede, Mr. Reese." Finch says, his tone level. "You win."

Strong arms stop him at the door. Finch is forced to turn, he expects the other man to apologise, to say something placating, but Reese says nothing. Reese looks at him, really _looks_, and his penetrating gaze reach farther into his consciousness than he dares to admit, before Finch can shutter the blinds close.

"What are you doing, Mr. Reese?" he asks, quiet. "_What are you hoping to achieve?_"

Reese's eyes flutter close before opening again. "I don't know." he says, quieter. "Don't leave, Finch."

Finch's heart wrenches. He feels his walls crumbling, the blinds shattering, the light pierces through his defences, and the sirens are loud and clear and _there_, but he is helpless. His back is to the door, but he cannot escape like he knows he should, and he stays rooted to the ground.

Reese does not let go of his arm, though his grip lightens. The touch burns through the fabric to his skin, travels up his arm, and pools on the left side of his chest. He struggles to breathe.

For a moment he saw the other man hover close, _closer_, and they stand so perilously intimate, that a kiss ghosts upon their lips, though neither makes the first move. Reese's voice is almost inaudible over his own violent heartbeat.

"One word, Finch."

Finch's throat closes up and a tiny bit of the Saharan desert moves into his mouth. Reese continues to watch him, the gaze so intense that Finch _aches_, but Finch says nothing.

Reese lets go of him, his expression even.

"I'm sorry," the taller man says, stepping back. "I'm sorry. I pushed too far." He casts one last guilty look of lament before turning away.

Finch's voice travels from the door and over his shoulder. "I didn't say anything, Mr. Reese."

Reese stops, perplexed. He glances back to find the man standing where he'd left him, eyes wide, stiff as yesterday, but his face was soft. Softer.

"I did say I never answer to any of your advances, Mr. Reese," Finch tells him. "And you said you'd try harder."

Reese spins, so hard that his head is left reeling. "I -" He starts to say something but realises he doesn't know what he should say. He swallows and smiles bitterly. "You win, Finch. I'm out of tricks."

To his dumbfounded surprise, Finch laughs. A nervous laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

"I'm tempted to say I still have a few up my sleeves, but I don't think it'll help at the moment."

Reese closes his eyes, unable to withhold a melancholic smile. Mustering what little dignity he has left, the ex-agent speaks again, gently this time. "Stay, Finch." The words titter between a request and a silent plead. "Stay with me."

Finch says nothing, doesn't even nod, or give acknowledgement that he's heard the other man speak. With a masterly composed expression, he shuts the door and steps closer.

"Is there dessert, Mr. Reese?"

Reese stares. Finch stares back.

Finally the shorter man blinks, and Reese seizes the moment; he kisses him, gentle, courteous at first, then firm and reassuring; he feels Finch stiffen, cautious and terrified, but the other man does not pull back, which is the most heartwarming and courageous thing he's ever seen, and he holds the man so tight that his arms tremble. Light and feathery strokes touch Finch's cheeks, around his temple and up his hair, the caress so attentively gentle and soft that even the most reserved man breaks, and Finch gives in.

At long last they pull apart, and Reese is smiling again. That coy, sultry and playful smile he has come to recognise as one of his own.

"I'm sure I can think of an idea or two for dessert, Finch."

Finch quirks his lips. He was sure that he can.

**FIN**

* * *

_A/N: Why my fic starts light-hearted, goes crack in the middle, and ends perilously close to angst, I'll never know. But I'm not fond of too much angst, so I tried to salvage it at the end... Anyhow, hope you enjoyed it, and do let me know what you think! :3_


End file.
